If Wishes Were Earls (16 page)

Family
. Roxley had no idea what that meant, and when he glanced over at Miss Murray, he cringed inwardly. This was not what he had planned when he’d returned to London last summer, with his heart on his sleeve, and ready to turn his own world upside down.

Marry Harry. Throw his aunts into a panic over a bride who didn’t come with a fat dowry. A breach of Marshom tradition if ever there was one.

Oh, but they’d love her. Just as he did. Certainly Aunt Essex was already inordinately fond of Harriet.

As for him? He told her the truth that night at Owle Park—she held his heart. And somehow, someway, he’d find a way to make good that promise.

Yet that meant ensuring that Harriet didn’t become embroiled in any of this. Keeping her from catching the eye of whoever was behind all this, especially when they had shown how willing they were to do anything to retrieve those demmed diamonds.

Even murder.

“I don’t want Miss Hathaway to come along with us,” he whispered to Miss Murray.

The girl eyed him with a calculating gaze. “If I were a jealous sort, I might suspect you carry a
tendré
for her.” This was followed by an aggrieved sniff.

“For Harry?” he shook his head, arms crossing over his chest. “She’s naught but a scamp.”

“Then I shall be a good influence over her,” Miss Murray avowed, settling deeper into her seat, and unfortunately, her resolve to have her way.

“No, Miss Murray, I must put my foot down,” he told her. “She cannot come with us. You will have to find another companion.”

And so, one would think that was the end of the matter.

Much as it had been with his Aunt Essex.

Chapter 7

Now that we have planned, organized and gathered our wits, a mustering is in order.

Colonel Darby to Lt. Throckmorten

from Miss Darby’s Perilous Journey

N
ot three days later there was, much to Roxley’s chagrin, a festive crowd gathered around the large coach Miss Murray’s father had provided so his daughter could travel in a style befitting a future countess. The merchant might have objected to the entire notion of mustering, but ever so quickly, like his daughter, he wrote it off as one of the many quirks of the aristocracy.

As for the earl, he felt that a funereal black would have been more appropriate.

Try as he might, he could not—without outright forbidding the matter, which would have required a rather detailed and lengthy explanation, something he was determined to avoid—prevent Harriet from traveling with the party.

So there she was standing with her friends, the Duchess of Preston and Lady Henry, done up in the latest fashion.

He suspected Lady Henry’s hand in the new clothes—for they were a bit daring as well as perfectly cut to capture Harriet’s tall, willowy figure to advantage.

Harry, oh, Harry, you shouldn’t be tangled up in this
, he wanted to warn her, but didn’t dare. Knowing Harriet, she’d hear that as a call to action.

Even her brother Chaunce hadn’t been able to dissuade her, having come away from his audience with her with what he called a “Moffett flea in his ear.” Apparently Harriet had inherited a double dose of obstinacy—from both her Hathaway and her maternal forebears.

Nor had Roxley been able to gain an audience with Aunt Essex. In a last act of desperation, he had decided to confide in her, but she’d been notably absent the last three days—as if she were avoiding him.

Of course, now that it was too late, what with the last trunk being loaded, Lady Essex suddenly hurried down the steps with a small hatbox in her grasp. “Oh, dear, I feared I missed you all. Such a happy day!” she exclaimed as she came to a flurried stop beside Harriet. “Dearest girl, could you see this returned to my sister? Tell Lady Eleanor it is her turn to decide.” The spinster patted Harriet’s arm affectionately as she handed off her parcel. “Now all is well.”

“Aunt Essex, a moment of your time,” Roxley said, before his aunt got out her handkerchief. He always suspected that she cried when guests left with a bit of joy in her heart that her life would now go back to its perfectly ordered routine.

“Oh, yes, Roxley, what is it?” she asked, patting at her pocket to see if she had a square of linen handy.

He offered her his.

“Yes, well, thank you, now off with you,” she said, nodding toward his horse.

Not for all the gold in England would he ride in that carriage—not when the only seats were either beside Harriet or facing Harriet.

“I’ll catch up,” he told her. “Why do I have the distinct feeling you have been avoiding me these last three days?”

“Avoiding you? What nonsense,” she said, waving her handkerchief at him. “Are you bosky?” She sniffed at his breath.

“I am not drunk. And I know well enough that you have been avoiding me—” When she looked a bit alarmed at being caught out, he gently took hold of her arm.

“Truly, Roxley, your imagination is getting the better of you—” She pulled at his grasp.

“Aunt Essex, I must ask you something,” he continued, taking a glance down the street where the carriage was about to turn the corner. “It is about my parents’ effects.”

“Your parents?”

He hated doing this, because his father and mother had been Aunt Essex’s light and joy, and bringing up their deaths always took the spark out of her eyes. Yet, he pressed on. “Yes, when they came back from the Continent—was there anything unusual in the wagon with–”

Their bodies.

He didn’t say it, but saw a nervous flutter in her eyes, before she waved the handkerchief at him, dismissing whatever memory had flickered to life.

“Unusual?” she asked, parroting his question. “Whatever do you mean? Good heavens, Roxley, that was years ago. I don’t want to think about those horrible days. So tragic.
Ever so tragic
,” she emphasized.

He leaned over and looked her directly in the eye. Marshoms were a cagey lot, gamblers at heart and liars always, so it took a master interrogator or another Marshom to ferret the truth out of them. With her cornered, he took the direct approach, hoping to startle a confession free. “Was there a cache of diamonds with them?”

She stared at him for another moment and then blinked. “Diamonds?”

“Yes, a great number of them—”

Lady Essex continued to gape at him, then she laughed and pushed him away, swatting at his hand as if it were a fly. “You are bosky! Diamonds indeed!” She stole a glance down the street where there was no longer any sign of Miss Murray’s extravagant carriage. “There were those horrible statues from Italy. I’m sure they’re counterfeit and not worth a ha’penny, but Eleanor has them all. You are welcome to them, but I doubt Miss Murray will approve. Upstarts and mushrooms never do appreciate the natural, classical form.”

“No, no, there must have been something unusual about their—”

She didn’t let him finish. “Honestly Roxley, as I told Lady Knolles the other day, do you think I would be wearing pearls if there were diamonds about?” She leaned closer and held the strand around her neck closer for him to examine. “These aren’t even real. There hasn’t been anything in this family but paste for three generations.” She shooed him back toward his horse. “Diamonds indeed! And do stop tippling so early in the day! It did in the fourth earl. Well, that and the harridan he married. I won’t have the same mistake ruin you.” She once again slanted a glance in the direction of the carriage, a sly smile on her lips, the wicked spark back in her eyes. “Now follow your heart.”

As Roxley rode away, he had to wonder if his aunt knew how close she was to the truth.

O
nce Roxley had turned the corner, Lord Whenby came down the front steps, and put his arm around Lady Essex. “It is time, my dear,” he told her.

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, blowing her nose into Roxley’s handkerchief. “I just worry so about him.”

Whenby glanced in the direction the earl had gone. “He is not his father.”

Lady Essex nodded in agreement. “No, he is not. But he is all we have.” Then she sighed and rallied. “However, Harriet is with him, and she will guard him well.”

“Does she know?” he asked, as the two of them went back into the house, where Lady Essex’s trunks were now being brought down for their journey to Foxgrove.

“Harriet?” Lady Essex shook her head. “No.”

“You have great faith in this Miss Hathaway,” Lord Whenby mused as he picked up his own traveling case.

“She loves him. And he her.” Lady Essex dabbed her eyes again. “And if anyone can save that dear boy, it is Harriet, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.”

“As you saved me, my sweetest, darling Essie,” he told her, putting a kiss on her wrinkled forehead.

F
or two days Harriet tried her best to catch Roxley’s eye or get a private word with him, but to no avail. Even now, she stood in the yard of the inn as the trunks and bags were sorted out and he had his back to her.

It was as if she truly was just the hired companion, a necessary ornament for Miss Murray’s all-important respectability.

Worse, Roxley seemed determined to carry on with this mustering as if he were seriously considering marrying a woman he clearly did not love.

Of this, Harriet was certain: Roxley did not love Miss Murray.

Oh, he was respectful and kind, and even thoughtful toward the heiress—asking after her comfort, obliging her with extra time in the morning over breakfast and seeing that she had the best rooms each night.

But his eyes had never held that passionate fire that Harriet had basked within.

Found her heart in its deep-seated glow.

No, he didn’t love Miss Murray.

Yet perhaps Chaunce had been right the other day when he’d told her that love wasn’t the issue when it came to Miss Murray—that Roxley as a Marshom wouldn’t marry merely for that blithe emotion when a fortune was so very necessary.

So even if he must marry, and marry well, there was one piece to all this that made absolutely no sense to Harriet—the inclusion of Mr. Hotchkin with their party.

Whatever was her brother’s assistant from the Home Office doing tagging along with them on Roxley’s mustering? Him and his endless correspondence, reports he spent every night scouring over, well away from everyone else—well, more to the point, her prying eyes—she had to imagine.

When she’d asked him just that, why he’d come along, Hotchkin had stammered something about an ailing uncle in Bath and then made some flimsy excuse about checking on the horses and fled her company.

Ailing uncle, indeed
. The whole thing sounded as fictional as Miss Manx’s pregnant sister.

Harriet puzzled it over once again as she watched the young man conferring with Roxley across the yard. There was more to all this than met the eye, but however was she to discover the truth?

Then opportunity came tumbling into her lap.

“What about this one, miss?” the lad asked her, holding up a plain black valise.

For a moment she thought it was her own, but just as quickly realized who owned that bag. Mr. Hotchkin.

It was on the tip of her tongue to direct it into the pile that Mingo was overseeing, but just as quickly, she stopped.

“I’ll take that one,” she said, hefting it with one hand, while she juggled the small hatbox Lady Essex had consigned into her care and hurried after Miss Murray, who had already gone up to her room.

With very little time before her, Harriet went into the small closet of a room off Miss Murray’s grand suite and closed the door. Placing Lady Essex’s hatbox carefully on the side table, she hefted the valise onto the narrow bed under the window. Taking a deep breath and shooting a guilty glance at the closed door, she shook off any feelings that tinged on guilt.

If no one would tell her what was going on, then she’d discover the truth herself.

Still, her fingers shook a little as she fumbled with the latch and then opened the bag up.

While this sort of espionage might be familiar territory for her brother Chaunce, Harriet found it rather exhilarating. That is until she quickly sifted through the contents—which turned out to be rather ordinary. Socks. Drawers. A comb and brush. Two changes of shirts and a nightshirt.

Harriet stepped back, utterly flummoxed. Why, there wasn’t anything of interest inside Mr. Hotchkin’s valise. No clues. No grand plan.

She frowned at the black leather bag and considered the inventory she’d made. What was missing?

Then it dawned on her. There were no papers—at least not the leather-bound packet that she had seen him with the night before. What had happened to his reports, the notes he’d been reading?

Then she took another look at the valise and recalled how it was far heavier than it should be for such ordinary belongings.

So she made a closer examination. Running her fingers around the upper edge, she realized that the top seam felt rather wide, and as she felt around some more, she realized it wasn’t just a seam, but a flap. And when she burrowed her fingers beneath it, she discovered a hidden pocket.

What might look like a sloppy bit of workmanship was actually a clever way to conceal a hiding spot—one her fingers now dove deeper into and struck gold.

Or rather paper.

She plucked out the mysterious packet Mr. Hotchkin had been guarding so carefully and for a moment considered what she was holding.

Most likely Home Office reports. Confidential government documents. Her brother would probably add that what she was doing, by all accounts, was treason.

Oh, certainly she could make the case that Mr. Hotchkin’s valise bore a startling resemblance to her own. But she would be hard-pressed to explain why, after opening the bag and realizing her mistake, she’d continued burrowing through the man’s belongings like a common thief.

Or spy.

Yes, well, this might be her only chance to get the answers she sought, so with a sense of practical resolve, she flipped open the portfolio cover.

In for the penny, in for a pound.

At first, the report seemed to have nothing to do with the current state of things—an account of a twenty-some-year-old card game in France, references to Marie Antoinette and her lost diamonds, several mentions of a Comte de la Motte and a list of his contacts in London. While it all went on and on for several pages—with a long account of a trial in Paris and a specific list of suspects—Harriet quickly pieced the entire story together, from the elaborate scheme to swindle the gems to when the diamonds had been brought to London.

But not all of the priceless stones had been accounted for. Some had gone missing. Harriet frowned at the papers she held.

A case that was more than a quarter of a century old?

This hardly seemed a matter for the Home Office.